


DICE

by notquitejiraiya (lethargicshadowlover)



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Police, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anti-Hero, Co-workers, Corrupt Policeman, Corruption, F/M, Murder Mystery, Nara Shikamaru-centric, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23789119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lethargicshadowlover/pseuds/notquitejiraiya
Summary: Everyone has nightmares; inescapable trances they want nothing more than to leave, run away from. But sometimes in dreams its not the monsters you should be afraid of. Sometimes its yourself.
Relationships: Nara Shikamaru/Temari
Comments: 29
Kudos: 18





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, hi, hello - this story has been planned for 5 years, so I hope you enjoy!
> 
> also, yes this first chapter is 1st person, but the rest of the fic will not be!
> 
> [Update - 04/06/20: Given the current situation, I feel it’s important to halt this fic for a period of time given its content and how tellings of a corrupt policeman may be viewed. My intention has always been only to provide an engaging mystery story, but if that story may be damaging at this—or any—point in time, I consider it my responsibility to stop updating until further notice, out of respect.  
> I am not abandoning the fic, however I will be leaving it dormant for a while. If you stumble upon this story now, or in the future, please be aware that glorifying the system is not and never will be the intention of this story. I hope everyone is staying safe and doing all they can during this time.]

_The engine whirs as my fuzzy vision grows ever less reliable. I know better than this, but following hour after hour beside someone with a shot glass glued to his lips whenever I looked up, the thought that I had to drive us back somehow vanished completely. I’ve always been a responsible person who knows, since he can’t control himself with his liquor, he’s better off sticking to the walls of a nightclub, sticking to his cigarettes._

_On top of the chills of early December I can already feel my head whizzing and clamping down with the worst headache I’ve had in years, and I know by the morning I’ll wake up alone in my bed a shaky wreck, deprived of sleep, fluids, and wishing I’d never met the idiot who dragged me out this evening._

_My passenger, however, is fine. From the back seat where he’s passed out I can hear him groan in his sleep every now and then. When he wakes up he’ll feel like I do—the clamping pain and the flood of regret—but, unlike me, he can justify the feeling in the same way he persuaded me to put too many inch-tall glasses to my lips._

_“C’mon. It’s a stag-do. It’s worth it!”_

_I hate him. I don’t care if he’s my closest friend, for the next twenty-four hours everything he does for me will go unappreciated. He’s getting married? Okay,_ I’m not _. Best man’s duty or not there is no reason for me to be out acting my age when I could be home watching bullshit TV with whiskey in hand, before swiftly falling into my duvet. Given that chance I’d be a happy man, but now I’ve missed the Wednesday night double bill of Border Security and replaced a sound sleep with driving down a lifeless road back home from some ghastly casino._

_“I hate you,” I mutter through the silence, throwing a cautious glance at the seat behind me. A wispy grey cloud leaves my mouth into the air, reminding me how long it’s been since my last cigarette, though by this point I’ve lost my concept of time. I guess it must have been hours._

_Another great sigh exaggerates the need growing at the back of my throat, seeping through the fabric of my gloves and warming the backs of my hands._

_The box protruding from my jacket suddenly becomes all the more noticeable, a lump in my side I’m desperate to remove and use for a better, more unhealthy purpose. Problem? I don’t trust myself to keep driving in a straight line with both hands, let alone while using one to extract a box of cigarettes from my pocket._

_If he were awake, my mate would light one for me—maybe even himself after the night we’ve had—and everything would be grand. I’m itching._

_I_ need _one._

 _I_ need _to pull over._

_The road is as bare, boring and empty as you’d expect any go-between town to be. There are more street-lamps than cars, and a silence sweeps through the air across the tarmac like tumbleweed is to follow. The sight isn’t anything special. In fact it’s pretty depressing to look ahead of my steering wheel, but the town’s lifelessness is a blessing in at least one sense: if my drunk parking is really as terrible as I’ve been told before, that it leaves me perpendicular to the pavement, at least I won’t be blocking anyone._

_With as much focus as I can drag away from the cigarettes and the bashing in of my head I roll the car onto the kerb; slightly further than I would’ve liked, but I’m too far past wrecked to care about the fresh scratches on the bumper or the awkward angle at which I’ve put the chassis. Even if I were to topple face first into the cement upon leaving I’m not sure I’d mind. A broken nose would take the edge off my head, I should hope._

_I cast another glance at the backseat before swinging open the door and throwing my feet out. They barely plant down before the dizziness hits me and I turn to look again. He hasn’t choked on his own vomit yet so I decide to ignore him, and once my vision has straightened I slowly move my head again to face the red-brick wall beside the car. The fuzziness blurs it into a mass of muted browns and oranges and I realise my perception is perhaps worse than it’s been in a long time. It feels like the only thing I can truly concentrate on is the cardboard in my pocket, digging into my hipbone like a stubborn shard, pleading to be noticed._

_It eases slightly as I haul myself up, steadying myself. The cold of the metal bleeds through my gloves onto my skin, prickling my fingertips like tiny needles. I flinch, almost tripping over my own feet and instead lean against the wall. My fingers fumble their way into my pocket, fishing out first the sacred packet and carelessly letting it fall to my feet before I start rooting around for my lighter. Prying desperately deep into the crevasse I wrap my fingers around the first things I come into contact with._

Things _—it’s in pieces—it must have broken in half! But if it has why can’t I feel the fluid leaking out?_

_I rip my hand from my pocket and in my palm sit dice; two of them._

_“What the…” I whisper, glaring at the cubes in confusion with the odd glance towards my comatose friend. “_ Dice _?”_

 _Dice. Only a few hours ago we were smack bang in the middle of a casino, yes, but I by no means remember palming them at any point in the evening. I’m not some sort of petty criminal, and even if I was why the hell would I steal a set of_ dice _?_

_“Alright there, mate?”_

_My head snaps up and as my eyes focus I see a man in front of me. He’s…tall—the sort of bloke who looks at you like you really don’t want to pick a fight with him. He smirks at me, furrowing his brow as he hangs out a doorway. As I look at him my senses seem to heighten, and suddenly I can hear the hum of music from nearby._

_“You’ve just been stood there a while, hunched over,” he adds slowly. “I’ve gotta say you look pretty shifty there.”_

_Since I’m not entirely sober I want to tell him_ he _looks kind of like an angry walrus and so has no real excuse for referring to_ me _as ‘shifty’, but instead I go with: “Oh, yeah. Fine, man. Just a bit out of it.”_

_“Oh?”_

_I nod._

_“Long night?”_

_I keep nodding._

_“Been driving a while?”_

_I don’t stop—can’t stop—lulling myself into a pattern I just can’t seem to break until I brush a stray hair from my eyes._

_“I could_ kill _for a smoke.”_

_The walrus man spits a laugh that sets me more on edge than I thought I was to begin with. “Then have one. They’re only at your feet.”_

_“I can’t find my lighter. It’s not in my pocket.”_

_“Have you tried the other pocket?”_

_I haven’t._

_“Here,” he says with his gnarly grin, stretching his arm towards me as he hops down. While his height is less frightening now, the outstretched hand leaves me frozen._

_There’s no chance of me taking hold of his hand, as I think he realises as he lets it drop and hang lifelessly at his side. “Come round ’ere. Use mine.”_

* * *

_Its calming at first, as it always is; the heat at the back of my throat and the glow of a streetlamp like a spotlight on me. I’ve been led into some dead-end alleyway, a few meters long and wide. Bricks seem crammed so tightly into the narrow walls that, if it weren’t plagued with smoke, it’d be warm enough to not see each breath I take for the first time all night._

_The only chill comes when I catch his eye._

_That same unnerving expression he’s worn this whole time doesn’t falter as he mutters, “You’re a_ good _kid, aren’t you?”_

_For the first time since I was fifteen I start to choke on my polluted breath, spitting out smoke and compressing the already claustrophobic area._

_“W-What?” I manage through coughs, dropping the cigarette to the floor and shoving my hand into my coat._

_“I saw your badge in the car. What’s your name?”_

_“Mate, I—”_

_He steps forward. He raises his arm to push my shoulder, snarling as he does so._

_I fall back, pressing myself against the wall helplessly, and suddenly I start to think about ‘Watership Down’. With this man towering above me,_ pinning _me like a weak little boy, with something shiny poking from his pocket that I’m certain is_ not _his lighter, all I can think of is_ rabbits _._

_He’s getting closer and closer, and as he presses his chest against mine I can feel him reach into his pocket._

_It’s been years since I read that book, but suddenly my dad’s voice is fresh in my mind, perfectly articulating each syllable, reading it to me:_

> _‘_ The whole world will be your enemy… _’_

_“What are you doing?” I don’t know why but the words stutter out on their own accord. We both know what he’s doing._

> _‘_ and whenever they catch you, they will kill you… _’_

_“Don’t struggle.”_

_“Oi—”_

_He covers my mouth with his hand and I start to shake. My mind darts about bounding from thought to thought in a desperate attempt to remember that final line of that speech like it’ll free me from the grip of this gruff bloke. But it isn’t coming. Not now, or now or—_

_Suddenly my hands are out, pushing him back with as much force as they can muster, but my shoulders can’t slip away._ I _can’t slip away. Any desperate attempt I may try to get out of this feels less than futile. Or is the phrase ‘more than futile’?_

 _Who knows? Who_ gives a shit _? The knife is on the floor now and he’s bending down; back turned, eyes away…blind._

 _The wall is close. Too close. The impact when my foot collides into his head drives it forward toward the brick._ Hard _. I lean over his torso and theres an explained rattling sound as I jab him with my toe. But there’s blood seeping and no response and my eyes are going fuzzier than they have all night._

_So I run: back to the car, to my lifeless friend away from this lifeless enemy. Only as I heave open the door with the remainder of my strength does that last sentence force it’s way through the pounding._

> ‘But first they must catch you…’

* * *

_A groaning voice sounds in the back. I tell him to go back to sleep and he obeys. Now, even with the radio buzzing in the background, the silence starts to strangle me. That man—a few miles back and metres into a lifeless alley—haunts my peripheral vision as if he’s clawing at the windows._

_I turn up the radio and change station, helplessly hoping for a distraction from what I’ve left behind._

_Change station._

_Police station._

_I have work in the morning._


	2. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awake, just about, Shikamaru's brain trawls through what is fact and fiction.

He awoke with a start, his alarm drilling through his already buzzing ears, and smashed his palm onto the offending clock.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, rolling onto his back. “That was whack…”

The ceiling, already littered with horrible twisting shapes in the paintwork, warped his vision as he forced open his tired eyes. It took him a minute to register where he was, that he was even in his own bed, under his own bedsheets—that he was still wearing his clothes.

The same clothes he wore in that dream.

He let out a load groan as he prised himself from the pillow, rubbing his eyes when he finally reached ninety-degrees. “Even your subconscious knows you’re a mess, moron,” he muttered to himself. He knew it was 7:30am, but he couldn’t say what day it was. For all he knew he could’ve slept straight through Monday—he probably had. Never before had such a vivid dream come to him during only a few hours of sleep, and he’d only got home at…

When _had_ he got home?

Had he really been so drunk that he didn’t remember when—or even _how_ —he’d arrived back here?

“I drove,” he told himself. He threw his legs off the bed. “No, that was my dream. I can’t have driven back. I was pissed.”

His hands reached out for his phone, tapping the screen to try and put it all together. _Monday_ , it said. So it had only been a few hours, after all. That explained why his whole body ached with a vengeance—this was less sleep than he’d had in _years_. Gone were the years of all-nighters, both for work and for pleasure, and he was regretting agreeing to go anywhere in the first place.

Momentarily, he remembered hearing from some weird woman at a funfair once that dreams like that were visions—the brain’s visualisation of things yet to come. But that was nonsense. He _had_ gone out for a stag-do last night, they were _past_ -events, and they certainly weren’t real.

Or were they?

He _had_ blacked out, after all. Between leaving the casino and waking up he remembered absolutely nothing. What was to say that in that period of time he _hadn’t_ driven home, and he hadn’t met that strange, menacing man, had a smoke and...

“Shikamaru!”

The shout was followed by a vicious knock, characteristic of the woman who’d hammered it onto the wood so many times.

He ignored it.

No, it just wasn’t possible. The man remembered every fight he’d ever been in, there was no reason he wouldn’t remember hurting someone like that. Besides, he only partially remembered the man—a blur of pale pink, darkened by his drunken haze—in the same vague detail strangers _always_ had in dreams. But he knew that for him to appear, fuzzy or not, he had met him before. That one wasn’t from the freak from the fair either, that was a psychological fact.

“Shikamaru, are you alive in there? I saw your car!”

 _My cars here._ He had driven back.

Against the will of his mind, his body hauled himself up and shuffled out of the bedroom and tripped, falling right into the front door of the flat. The boots he’d stumbled over were strangely damp, stained by something dark and unfamiliar on the visible line of their soles. A slight brown mark trailed into the carpet beneath them, and Shikamaru groaned. He hated his drunk self. He’d only bought those last week.

With a huff, he teased open the door, leaving the chain across as he peered through the crack at his unwanted visitor.

The woman who’d lived opposite him for the last five years raised her eyebrows when he looked her in the eye, cocking her head to one side. Her long blonde ponytail swished behind her head, and she pursed her lips. “You only just woke up, didn’t you?” she sighed.

He grunted and shut the door on her. “Give me ten minutes.”

“It doesn’t take ten minutes to shower!” she called through the door.

“Leave me alone, Ino, I need to…”

Shikamaru’s voice trailed off as his eyes caught sight of the jacket strewn across the kitchen side, a packet of cigarettes thrown on top of it with a splattering of red on the corner. His shoulders grew cold, and suddenly a little felt bruised as they tensed.

“Eat,” he finished with a gulp. “I need to eat.”

Impossibly slowly, he started towards the garment, painfully aware that every step handed his mind another piece of a puzzle that he wanted nothing less than to put together.

“You can eat on the way, stupid!”

His head whipped back to the door with a start, completely forgetting the presence of his neighbour. “Ino, go without me alright?”

“For crying out loud!” she groaned. “The bus leaves in… _two_ minutes—I won’t make it in time!”

“Just wait at yours then,” he spat. “I’ll knock, for fucks sake.”

There was a pause, and he faced his kitchen once more—eye to eye with that ominous suede coat and drew to a halt, towering over it.

Eyeing the dark red corner of the cigarette carton, he remembered, last night, the nosebleed Choji had struggled through as they lingered outside the casino, and how the man had rooted around Shikamaru’s pockets for his handkerchief to help. He recalled how he’d pulled it out with his smokes, and the regrettable feeling when his drunk friend handed back the blooded cloth—without a second thought—by stuffing it directly into his pocket with the smokes in one go.

That, at least, explained the blood which worked its way like veins through the cardboard. But that jacket—whose pocket was gaping open, just _begging_ to be checked—had to be the final straw.

“Dice,” he muttered to himself. “There were dice in my pocket.”

“What?”

Shikamaru growled, shouting, “Weren’t you meant to be gone?”

A shivering hand reached for the pocket, and with it he noticed blotches circling his wrist. Maybe this was another point for real in this menacing recollection game, but who _hadn’t_ woken up with bruises they weren’t sure of the reason for? Friday had been a brutal day—that bloke in interrogation had grabbed him multiple times, after all, which even explained the stranger’s actions he’d made up. It wasn’t quite solid enough—none of it was.

 _But dice_ , he thought, _if they’re in there…_

He didn’t want it to be real, of course he didn’t, but the inconvenience and frankly the desperation that came with the fear of not knowing clawed at his chest like a dying animal. Nothing would be the same again. With every one of these weird observations, the coincidences stacked up against him. If he found dice in his pocket alongside that stack, chance said they weren’t just coincidences. And if they weren’t coincidences there was a man dead somewhere in an alleyway; his head cracked, bloodied, abandoned.

Reaching into a pocket had never been so difficult—he’d been lingering, shaking for at least a minute by now—and as his fingertips twitched and wriggled their way through the fabric, he could barely move.

But, with a swift and sudden moment of bravery, his fingertips did their scouting to find:

Nothing.

It was empty, and so apparently was his hit list.

Shikamaru let out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding as he checked the right pocket as a precaution—full of _something_ , but empty of dice—and buried his head in his arms on the kitchen side.

“Oh thank fuck...” he whispered. “Holy shit…fuck me…”

“What _are_ you doing in there?”

 _Ino_. Why could she never listen to his instructions?

“Shikamaru, I’ve missed the bus now so you better fucking hurry up.”

“Fine let me shower and we’ll go!” he yelled, rubbing his eyes until colourful spots clouded his vision.

He heard Ino whining. “What happened to needing to eat?”

The coat eyed him up once more, and he gave it a carefree side eye in return. But the smirking pocket hadn’t quite finished with him—he still felt like there was more to that dream, like something should explain _why_ something so black had creeped its way intohis mind. Swiftly, he snatched up the near-empty carton of cigarettes and tossed them once in his hand, unable to avoid sight of the bloodied corner.

“Nah,” he mumbled, emptying the remaining smokes onto the counter and discarding their soiled shell. “Not hungry.”

* * *

He slammed the door of his car, waiting for Ino to do the same. “Lift home required?”

“Robotic voice required?”

The squinty and undeniably unimpressed look in his eyes said all it needed, and Ino rolled her eyes. She giggled to herself and strutted round to the drivers side, her heels making their usual bothersome repetitive clicking across the tarmac. Whatever the hell it was the woman did for a living, Shikamaru was convinced she was capable of doing it without sky high stilettos and that godawful noise following her around.

“What’s up with you?”

He groaned. “I’m hungover. I told you.”

“You’re frequently hung over,” she argued, “but you look _sad_.”

Shikamaru locked the car and fished one of his rogue cigarettes from the pocket of his coat (not the offending article—that thing was waiting a while until it’s resurfacing.) He started to walk away but she grabbed his wrist before he could—it hurt, more than he’d ever care to admit.

“It’s not to do with that message you let me, is it?”

He turned. “Message?”

“You rang me at like 2am, Shikamaru,” she scoffed. “Do you not remember?”

With a frown and a sigh, he tore his wrist from her grip with ease. “No,” he sighed. “I don’t remember anything.”

He could hear Ino giggling from behind him, and the _click, click, clicking_ of her goddamn heels. “Must’ve been a good night then,” she mused.

“It better have been…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She cleared her throat. “I do need a lift, by the way.” _Click, click_. He yearned to tell her to shut up. “Six-ish.”

He nodded and lit the cigarette between his lips. “Six-ish,” he repeated, marching his way out of the car park to the last place he felt he should go right now.

* * *

Choji leaned against the bottom step, two disposable cups in hand. When Shikamaru caught sight of him the man looked sheepish beyond belief, and cowered when we saw his friend smirk at him.

“I thought you said—”

“I know, what I said,” Choji whined, extending the small cup.

“Stop getting one-use cups, Shikamaru,” he mocked, false enthusiasm fuelling his tone as he grabbed the coffee, “you’re killing the planet.”

“Give it a rest, Shikamaru. I woke up late,” he groaned, rubbing his temples. “As did you by the look of it.”

Shikamaru looked down at where Choji’s eyes had landed on two of the buttons of his shirt, forced through completely the wrong holes. He held out his coffee, waiting for his friend to take it before slowly reassigning each button its rightful place. “Better?”

Choji nodded, smirking. “Better.”

“Good.” He took a sip of the coffee, and felt it burn the back of his throat. It seared through his system and churned its way to his stomach, distressing him as it went. With a scrunching of his nose, Shikamaru let the cup fall to his side and took a deep breath to start tackling the many stairs up to the Criminal Investigation Department.

Following sluggishly, Choji slurped at his drink, earning himself a disgruntled side-eye from Shikamaru which he smiled at.

Shikamaru was grateful for his longstanding friend and colleague, and forced a smile himself to try and show it, but he couldn’t help just feeling numb. With each step he took, he felt his body grow weaker, and his mind raced. Monday morning never came with much joy whenever it rolled around, but usually after two days of sitting at home alone he was glad to come into work; to occupy his brain, see Choji, check out the seized items when his lunch break set in, and most recently to laugh at whatever strange attempts their boss had made to get the office a more ‘reasonable place’.

Hesitantly he took another sip of his drink. “So you got home fine?” Behind him Choji laughed and he turned, confused. “What?”

His friend shook his head, running a hand through messy light-brown hair. “You dropped me to my door, man. Do you not remember?”

Embarrassingly he didn’t, but nonetheless Shikamaru clicked and nodded as though he did.

“Cheers, though,” gushed Choji. “I don’t know how I would’ve gotten home without you doing that for me. Karui was livid that she had to literally carry me inside—can’t imagine the shit I would’ve got this morning if she’d had to come pick me up.”

“Forget about it,” he smiled. Suddenly he heard a groan from his friend, and his mind couldn’t help painting that vivid picture again of Choji on his backseat, and the adrenaline shooting through every inch of him as he ran away from what he’d done.

But he _hadn’t_ done anything. If he hadn’t been blackout drunk himself, there would be no fear—the fear was unfounded. _Be logical, idiot_ , he told himself and rubbed his eyes, desperately trying discard it from his memory.

“Hey, man?”

Shikamaru blinked violently. “Huh?”

“Are you doing ok?”

“I’m fine,” he lied, shooting him a shaky thumbs up. “Why—do I look as shit as my hangover feels?” _Or as shit as my_ brain _feels._

Choji shook his head and chugged down the remainder of his drink. “It’s just that Karui said you looked like you’d seen a ghost when you dropped me off. White as a sheet, man—that’s what she said.”

 _Oh, for fuck’s sake. Of_ course _I was._

“Nah, man. I was just pissed.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

There was a beat. Shikamaru could feel the sweat beading on the back of his neck.

He was in no way read for the slap on the back Choji threw at him, or the laughter that came with it. Shikamaru leaped forward a few steps and swore, swatting his friend away. “Christ, man. Chill!”

“We were paralytic, as every man on a stag should be,” Choji laughed, he opened his arms into a welcoming hug, and Shikamaru rolled his eyes. “Come ‘ere, solider. Bring it in. Thanks for making it a good one.”

He climbed the last step and waited for his friend to catch up. “You didn’t throw up in the car,” he scoffed, letting himself be engulfed into his massive arms, “so I suppose it was.”

_As long as I didn’t knock someone off, that is._

When Choji finally let him loose, Shikamaru pushed open the door to C.I.D with his shoulder and listened for the chorus of monotone, good morning greetings that always echoed around. He looked around as he made his way through the labyrinth of desks, putting his half-finished coffee on the free-for-all food table the division had always had, and grabbed a questionable looking croissant. Just a moment’s inspection told him that their boss had made it, and so in no way did he want to eat that, so he passed it to Choji without a second glance. Even he was hesitant, but took a bite anyway.

“Bad?” Shikamaru asked through stifled as his friend forced back a cough.

“Actually,” he wheezed, “considerably better than last week.”

He looked up, catching the eye of the offending baker through the glass of her office door. Politely he raised his hand and forced himself not to roll his eyes.

“Worth me trying one?”

“Oh, fuck no.”

Shikamaru smirked and grabbed an apple to accompany his coffee. He shuffled over to his desk to find unexpected company, and thrust his cup in front of the man sat there.

Ever since eleven months ago when Shikamaru first made DI and transferred to homicide—the youngest the division had ever known, as his mum liked to remind everyone—coming face to face things you don’t want to deal with had kind of become a given. Over the last _four_ , however, there had been Kankuro. He wasn’t bad by any means, and Shikamaru had never known a more persistent and better interrogator. Shikamaru was _good_ at this job, he wasn’t going to be humble about it, and he was good at it for the simple reason he worked until he got his answers by whatever means were necessary.

Somehow, by pure coincidence, he had found one of his own.

He was from out of town, commuted in every morning twice the distance Shikamaru did and somehow still arrived impossibly early despite never appearing to be willing. The DS who’d come before him was _wrong_ for him; fast and pernickety, neither of which Shikamaru was particularly fond of. But, when Kankuro was transferred, Shikamaru had felt at ease in his position for the first time: he wasn’t constantly followed, wasn’t questioned whenever his methods were _exactly_ in line with protocol, and generally felt a sense of ease that he could rely on Kankuro.

At times Shikamaru had wondered if the Sergeant was angered by the fact he was of lower rank than the younger man, and often it was apparent that he was. And while Kankuro was often out of office, scampering around doing god knows what when everyone else was cooped up in here, Shikamaru still felt pretty safe in the knowledge that he’d made a friend in the guy from the way he appeared at his desk like he’d never been gone.

“Showed up, then,” Shikamaru said, perching on the edge of the desk. “All good?”

Kankuro lifted his head from the ball of rubber bands he’d been working on for the last moth and gave a quick nod, grabbing the caffeinated gift from before him. “Parking guy is here with his wife.”

Choji nearly spat from behind him on his way to his own desk a few metres away, but Shikamaru merely winced. “She’s his cousin,” he corrected. “But why?”

“No idea,” he shrugged, leaning back in his chair and taking a drink. “Haruno just called them both in.”

“Weird…” Shikamaru’s eyes scanned the blinds that blocked his view to the commissioner’s office. “How long?”

“Have you drunk from this thing already?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Uh-huh.”

Kankuro chuckled. “Wanker…”

“ _How long_ , Kankuro?” His voice was far more level than his head, which still spun around as his eyes tried too desperately to focus. “They look upset?”

“The guy didn’t—when does he ever,” he replied, squinting in Shikamaru’s direction, confused. “The woman looked traumatised, but she’s even barely cut out for traffic policing let alone the CID.”

 _She’s seen something,_ Shikamaru clocked, and looked down at his colleague, attentive.

The door creeped open and the bright pink hair of Sakura Haruno, commissioner of the CID, surfaced. “Akimichi? Can I have a word?”

Why was that enough to make his stomach flip, and his knees grow weak? The paranoia which had fuelled his entire morning was making him weak—he hated it! His will didn’t burn bright on the best of days, but today it was crumpled in a heap, sopping wet and drenched in sweat.

“What’s with you?”

He look back down and brushed the stray hairs back from his eyes. For a moment he contemplated telling Kankuro about his dream, but he knew there was no way the man would listen with any level of seriousness. He’d either tell him to stop being an idiot, take the piss for the next ten five years _at least_ , or both. Still, the longer he wondered what the woman had seen, the more he listened to computers whirr and people babble, the sicker he felt in the pit of his stomach.

Kankuro frowned at his dazed expression and snatched the apple from his hand, taking a bite before the younger man could protest, not that he would.

“Nara—you, too. Nara?”

Shikamaru raised his head to the sound of the voice and, from the other side of the room, the penetrative eyes of Commissioner Haruno locked onto him.

Not for the first time in his life, and with excellent aim, Shikamaru Nara vomited in the nearest trash can he could see.

* * *

“Are you alright now?”

Shikamaru shifted his feet, leaning against the commissioner’s door, nodding ever so slightly. He could imagine it, the jokes he would hear from here on out, the nicknames he’d get in jail…

“Do you need to go home, man?” asked Choji from his spot in the corner.

“No, I’m fine,” he lied. Biting his lip, he examined the room the stack of documents right by the printer, the trembling womanly figure in the corner. “I assume you called me in here to do my job, ma’am?”

The Commissioner nodded slowly from her chair.

Relief washed over him.

“Right,” he started, “I’ll go shout Kan—”

“No,” she interrupted solemnly. “Not yet.”

The relief vanished. “But you said—”

“There’s been a homicide, yes.” Her voice was level, and while Shikamaru has his doubts about her elected right to this position, he couldn’t argue she did calm and collected a little too well. “Or,” she corrected, “I should say we have no reason to believe it _isn’t_ a homicide.”

Shikamaru nodded, digging his hands into his pockets. “Right…and the traffic police are here because—what? Hit and run?”

“Because I found him.”

The voice sounded meekly from the shaking woman in the corner. She sounded petrified, and for the first time in years he found himself understanding how she felt. For so long he had been numbed to the sight of death—it was integral to his job not to let his feelings let him ignore the facts—but after that vivid dream and the thousands of rancid thoughts that had stormed his head since waking, he understood the feeling once more. He felt sorry for whatever mess she’d seen, no doubt about it, but he didn’t know how to comfort her. Unlike Choji, who placed his hand on her shoulder and gave her a soft smile—how he soothed people like that Shikamaru had never understood. Whenever he tried it, he’d be shrugged off—maybe even punched!

“We were finishing our route,” said the man who Shikamaru only knew as Hyuuga, the name sewn into both his and the woman’s uniform. “We always start and end the nightly patrols in the same area—about an hour north from here, very quiet town.” He shook his head and looked down at the girl to his side, giving her hand a squeeze. “There’s just so many _idiots_ up there who decide that, because it’s so quiet, speed limits and parking restrictions mean _nothing_ —”

“Neji, stop!” the woman sobbed, elbowing him to shut up. She shook her head and raised her hand to wipe her eyes as they darted from Choji to Shikamaru desperately, who himself felt utterly helpless. He would’ve hugged her if it weren’t completely unprofessional, because he could’ve done with a hug himself. The one Choji gave him a earlier that morning might’ve been accepted begrudgingly, but once they were let loose from this room he would gladly accept another.

“It was awful.” The woman snivelled as though to grasp the attention of everyone, as if the whole room was _capable_ of not listening to her. “Neji was writing up a ticket and I walked on ahead, and…” She paused and bit her lip. “And I just saw out it of the corner of my eye.”

“Saw what?” Shikamaru asked, far too sharply and quickly, immediately kicking himself _and_ the commissioner for not letting Kankuro in here to do this troublesome bit.

The commissioner herself walked over to her and engulfed her in a much desired hug, frowning at him over the woman’s shoulder. He pointed through the door toward Kankuro and Sakura shook her head once again.

“It was awful,” the man, Neji, agreed. “And the calling card they left.” He shook his head. “It was as if they thought it was just some game.”

“Calling card?” Choji asked.

Shikamaru, however, focused in on the word that bothered him most. “Game,” he repeated. “Why a game?”

Neji pointed to the table, and the two men looked at Sakura for approval. Choji launched forward, flipping open the file.

“Shit,” he whispered.

“Let me—”

Shikamaru silenced himself at sight of the photo his friend held.

A photo of a man; two dice sitting pretty on his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins...


	3. Snake Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shikamaru is faced with new facts and a very difficult decision.

He was eyeing up the trash can again. As he stared down at the photograph he could feel the burning in the back of his throat creeping upwards, threatening him with every passing moment. It took everything in him not to snatch it from Choji’s chubby fingertips and tear it half, not to scream, not to cry…

Never before in his life had Shikamaru experience something like this, something so uprooting and jarring to a point he considered the possibility it was all a prank. He longed to turn around at the sound of the commissioner sniggering, but all that sounded were the same disquieting sobs from the woman who she still cradled in her arms. Every inch of his tainted body itched, his skin screeching under the weight of the knowledge he now possessed, and as he balled his hands into tight fists they felt rough; dirty and terrible.

He gulped.

Of course this wasn’t the first time Shikamaru had seen death. Every day he saw pictures like this and navigated his way through scenes no man should have to see in their life time; doing so was his job. Interrogating the loved ones of those pictured and scrutinising their now useless belongings was part of his every day, and he had become so numb to it that Choji had mentioned, on occasion, how that appeared.

“It’s like you don’t care, man,” he’d edged in one late night. “Like you don’t care if people live or die.”

At the time, Shikamaru had rolled his eyes, but given the current situation he was rethinking that response. The way he felt looking at that man in the picture, examining closely the blood matting his dark brown hair, he realised that frankly, no—he didn’t care at all. Of course, if it was Choji in that photo he’d probably have broken his hand with the impact it would’ve most certainly had with the wall—same with if it had been his mother, or maybe even Ino if he was feeling particularly affectionate that day.

But it wasn’t _any_ of those people. It was a random man, face down on a slab on concrete in an alleyway. If he wasn’t swimming in own guilt then it would’ve just been another day at the office—he wouldn’t have cared that the man was dead _at all_ , only that he had a job to do. Not to mention he definitely would’ve made some offish remark by now.

_Shit, is it weird that I haven’t said anything?_

He looked up to see Choji frowning at him, and listened to the gentle tap of Commissioner Haruno’s toes against the linoleum.

 _Yep_ , he thought, _it’s weird_.

Shikamaru straightened himself up and adjusted his crooked tie as he shuffled back against the wall. “ _Snake eyes_ ,” he muttered, forcing a chuckle.

“What?” Haruno cocked her head to one side. “What do you mean?”

“Just look.” A shaky hand pointed at the photograph Choji raised for her to see. The shivering woman burrowed deeper into Haruno’s bosom. “Snake eyes,” he repeated with an artificial smirk. “You lose.”

Choji squirmed a little. “You think that’s what it means?”

_It definitely isn’t._

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I never would’ve noticed that, Nara,” Haruno nodded. “You’re right, well done.”

“Well, it’s _my_ job to notice, not yours,” he spat out, a little too harshly. He looked to his friend who’s brows narrowed with distaste, and Shikamaru had to swallow the bile that had creeped to the back of his mouth. “Speaking of doing our own, why is Choji here?”

“Hey!”

His dark eyes shut as his head leaned back against the wall. He knew the answer he _needed_ not to hear, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to listen either way. Still, he knew it would be suspicious, out of character for him, not to pose the question. “No, really—why? If this is a homicide, why has a non-homicide detective been called in?”

Commissioner Haruno slowly peeled away from the woman she’d been comforting and muttered something quietly to the man, Neji, before they quickly scurried out. She made her way quietly to her desk and fell back into her plush chair—of which Shikamaru had been especially jealous of since Kankuro had broken his last week. Her fingertips tapped away at her keyboard, a sound that rattled through his head like gunfire, and eventually pulled up a photograph—a mug shot, in fact. “Do you remember this man?” she said solemnly, looking between the both of them.

“No,” Shikamaru lied on instinct. Of course he did. He’d spent _at least_ five whole minutes talking to the guy last night. “Never seen him in my life, ma’am.”

His friend shook his head. “Yes, you have.”

Shikamaru looked over at Choji, who’s eyes narrowed as they bore into the monitor. _Don’t tell me the guy remembers—he can’t_ possibly _remember him._

He knew in that moment that he needed to come clean, _right now_ before anything else transpired. Maybe then he might even be able to scrounge himself a self defence case; he _had_ been attacked from what he remembered. Sure, he’d never get off with _nothing_ , but if he spoke _now_ —if he could get the ghastly words out before Choji did—he’d at least be able to show no motive and the two might even speak for his character in court.

But the words refused to come, not before Choji next spoke.

“Remember the crime ring we were looking into with DCI Sarutobi before…” He swallowed and took a deep breath. “Before he was killed?”

Shikamaru bit down on his lip, his fingertips sneaking their way to the skin of his other wrist. He pinched himself and his surroundings didn’t alter. Silently, he nodded.

Of course he remembered, it wasn’t even that long ago—only a few years maybe, long before he made Inspector. Both Choji and himself had worked under Asuma Sarutobi for a year or so by the time he first mentioned what he wanted their help with, and of course both young men had done as was required of them but it had never come to much. All Shikamaru himself had ever found out about the situation was that there was a group of men—and possibly a woman but nobody could confirm this—who took it upon themselves to orchestrate chaos. People had died, banks had been robbed, children abducted all because of this organisation, and yet they still knew nothing more than questionable scraps of knowledge.

Asuma had taken it upon himself to follow up one of these dubious claims, only to wind up dead three days later, leaving his subordinates confused, angry and alone. They’d known what he was doing, they’d made no effort to stop them, so it only made sense for them to continue what he had started. What _didn’t_ make sense, even to Choji, was Shikamaru growing frighteningly obsessive—not to mention his need to stalk and break into a suspect’s home only to be greeted by said suspect’s girlfriend and a frying pan.

The short-lived trial had gone in his favour—it _had_ to, the department couldn’t afford to lose someone so useful and generally credible—but he’d been moved to homicide, and banned from the case by the previous commissioner. Shikamaru said it didn’t matter, that it just came with the job, but that was only because he knew Choji would still share with him when large updates came in. But there never were any updates. It all ran dry as far as they were concerned, and _that_ mattered. It mattered _terribly_.

So it made sense that as soon as Choji uttered the name Shikamaru shuddered, bringing his already non-existent fingernails to his lips to bite nervously. It made sense that suddenly he remembered this man in a totally different light.

“He’s the…”

Choji nodded. “The one with all the tattoos,” he agreed. “One of the two seen by the witnesses _that_ night.”

For some reason Shikamaru’s sickness subsided, and he felt his chest inflate slightly. Why was coming clean suddenly not at the forefront of his mind? How could he let his resentment prevail over guilt like that—what was _wrong_ with him?

Trying to ignore the concerning shift inside his mind, he stared down at the commissioner with his lip between his teeth. “So, are we looking at a vigilante?” _You know we’re not._

She raised her eyebrows and pouted slightly. “I don’t know—maybe,” she said. “It could also be an inside job, from within the organisation?”

Shikamaru nodded. _Guess again, lady._

“So, what do you want _me_ to do, ma’am?” Choji sighed. “The files have been _dead_ for almost eighteen months, am I meant to just reopen them all because of this?”

“I would think you’d want to,” Haruno frowned. “After what happened, I mean.”

“Of course I do.”

“Hop to it then.”

Choji nodded sheepishly and grabbed from her hand a wad of papers Shikamaru could only assume the contents of. “Yes, ma’am.” With that, he shot Shikamaru a concerned smile and hurried out, leaving the door wide open behind him.

Shikamaru shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks, searching desperately for his lighter, and softening his posture when his hand finally touched metal.

Ever since it had disappeared he _longed_ for the feeling of sickness, of wanting to scream and cry. It had been unbearable, forcing him into a corner and realising the fears that had gripped him, but while it had existed in him he had at least felt like a human being. Now, as he stared into the fearful eyes of his boss, Shikamaru felt himself nothing more than a shell—angry, soulless and broken—and he didn’t know how to deal with that.

He knew what he’d try first, though. _First_ he’d have a cigarette.

“I want you to take the case, Shikamaru.”

He faltered. She never referred to him by his first name—it was uncomfortable and he didn’t like it. “I’m not _allowed_ to, ma’am.”

“Because it’s about _them_?”

“Obviously,” he scoffed. “I was banned from interaction with cases involved in them after…” He rubbed his neck. “I don’t have to tell you, ma’am.”

She leaned forward in her chair and frowned slightly. “Banned by my predecessor, not a judge of any sorts,” she added with a sigh. “ _I_ want you to take the case.”

But he _didn’t_ want to take it. No part of him wanted to investigate something he himself had done—if he screwed up, said too much it would be him in prison.

“Nobody in homicide has a better record,” she pleaded, “and I know you’ll be driven unlike anyone else would be.”

_Driven to save my own arse, you mean._

“I’ll keep off your back unless you do anything stupid—no pressure from me at all.”

It was obscene. The situation was impossible, and the power trip of being handed the investigation on a silver platter with the ability to orchestrate it as he pleased screamed to Shikamaru from the depths of his mind. He not in the most privileged position he possibly good be in his given situation—he could use this to his advantage, couldn’t he?

But he shouldn’t he knew he shouldn’t. The ongoing battle behind his eyes was abhorrent, but he was grateful that through the veil of anger his guilt was fighting to be heard. This moment was his last chance to admit what he’d done; from here there was no going back and he had to make a choice.

However, that didn’t stop the overriding feeling of anxiety in his gut from keeping his mouth shut and stopping him speaking. Shikamaru always preferred to keep quietand run from trouble unless it was a necessity, and his reflexes were kicking in despite the fact this was the most important decision he might ever make. As hard as he fought and tried to let his penitence take the wheel, he’d never been one to respond to conflict by fighting. He ran—ran to save his own skin.

Tears almost formed in his eyes as he realised he wasn’t going to be able to do it—say it out loud, admit it all and overcome his urge to flee. This realisation left him with one resounding fact remaining: it would be stupid—and not to mention _suspicious_ —for him _not_ to accept this case.

He gulped as a disturbing sense of calm fell over him.

“So, you’ll take the case, right?” She asked the question tentatively, her hand fingertips rubbing each other delicately as she thought. He watched the way she brushed a piece of hair behind her ear, and the nervous way she swivelled in her chair. Sakura Haruno really _wasn’t_ as commanding as the last commissioner, and he definitely _didn’t_ hate her for it.

Shikamaru nodded slowly. He hated himself before the words even left his mouth. “Yeah, I’ll do it,” he replied hesitantly, “if you’re sure.”

All he could think about now was how he needed to get back there fast, something ten minutes ago he’d never have wanted— _hell_ , he _still didn’t_! Anxiety still flooded his veins and he was running on the most negative adrenaline he’d ever experienced, but at least he was finally functioning instead of zoning out every other minute. “If they only found him an hour ago,” he added, “when were these photos taken?”

Haruno smiled thankfully. “They were _just_ send over.” She nodded towards the fax machine. “Forensics are there now.”

Another shot surged through him as he recalled one of the details his dream—no, his _memory_ had focused on. The cigarette he’d begun, that he’d dropped amongst the chaos, must’ve still been sat on the floor of that alleyway just waiting to be bagged up and tested.

There would be DNA all over that thing. It needed to be _misplaced_ somehow or else none of this was worth it.

He gave a sharp nod. “I’ll head there now.”

* * *

Shikamaru sat in the passenger seat, cigarette-laced hand hanging out of the window as Kankuro stormed down the street ten miles over the speed limit, no questions asked. The moment he’d stepped out of the office and back onto the main floor, Kankuro had grabbed his coat and keys and followed him down the stairs—all he’d had to do was raise a thumb toward the door and shout the town’s name as they pattered down the stairs and now here they were: five minutes away and only a single word said.

Bliss.

Or at least, it would’ve been if it weren’t for that cigarette playing on his conscience.

Every drag he took of his current smoke hacked away at his brain, his hands shuddering each time it came close to his lips. For the first time he was so painfully aware of every inch of chapped skin on his lips touching it, strangling it with particles which reeked exclusively of him.

“What are you not telling me?”

Shikamaru jumped as the sergeant spoke. “ _What_?”

Kankuro nodded ahead at the road. “About what we’re going to?” he asked again. “Clearly, it’s a homicide, but it’d be good not to just be a sitting duck for more of Aburame’s bullshit this time.”

Even given everything, it was impossible for Shikamaru to hold back a chuckle. The lead forensic investigator was impossibly fastidious, and had always made a point of showing up Kankuro’s lack of background knowledge of cases before he arrived— _if_ he arrived. In the man’s defence, that _was_ always the fault of Shikamaru, but the DI still always loved watching his sergeant squirm under fire about details.

This time was different, though. The only thing he wanted this time was not to be made to squirm himself. “Male, age unknown but appears to be in his forties, maybe fifties,” he begun, tapping some ash out the window. “Known criminal—part of a crime ring the department’s been trying to get at for the best part of four years.”

“Right,” Kankuro nodded and, as he stopped for the nearing traffic lights he turned to Shikamaru with raised eyebrows. “In other words it’s probably good he’s dead, then.”

Shikamaru smiled and nodded along, all whilst his heart pummelled his chest so hard he wondered if his ribs might crack. Over and over since the moment he’d recognised the man, he’d been fighting a losing battle in his mind about who the real bad guy was here, and the last words he needed to hear if he didn’t want to steer straight off to crazy-town had just fallen from his colleague’s mouth.

 _Maybe it is_ , he thought to himself for the hundredth time, backed up by the snide man to his right hand side, and for the hundredth time his reasoning was floored. Maybe one less innocent might be killed, one less shop might be burgled, one less car broken into—all were perfectly valid reasons for Kankuro being right until Shikamaru realised that he didn’t _care_ what it achieved. He was just desperately looking for _something_ to tell him he wasn’t awful.

“Suppose you’re right,” he mumbled through his cigarette. “I think Haruno’s wondering if it might be a vigilante, but…”

He turned to see Kankuro frowning, staring straight ahead as the car stormed on.The man looked so focused and calm, yet also so terrifying. Shikamaru couldn’t stop going back and forth between coming explaining everything to him and keeping quiet, but he realised now as he watched his powerful grip the wheel there might be one more option.

Shikamaru was strong, but in no way did he look it. It was safe to say that during training for the force he had got through physicals by the skin of his teeth, and nobody had ever pegged him for the violent type—they never would. But Kankuro, both in stature and attitude, was another story entirely…

“But what?” the brunette asked, jarring Shikamaru away from his thoughts.

He swallowed awkwardly. No, he hadn’t really just considered framing someone he not only knew but respected—surely he couldn’t be that desperate yet.

Somehow the longer this went on, the less real it all seemed; he could’ve really done without the inconvenience of the whole situation. Exhausted by himself, Shikamaru slumped back in the seat and took one last final puff before dropping the butt out the window. “Nothing, sorry,” he sighed. “Just weighing options, I guess.”

* * *

“So, _you_ decided to show.”

Kankuro snorted and shook his head as he circled the vehicle onto the kerb. “You expect so little from me, Aburame.”

The man stood, head to toe in pure white. His CSI suit engulfed his figure and forced his wild curls into captivity, while the mask that clung to his face made him almost unrecognisable. It was only his voice and slightly hung head that set him apart from the flock of white-suited sheep that slaved away behind him.

A shudder ran down Shikamaru’s neck. As he looked around, particularly when his eyes caught a momently glimpse past the white suits down the alleyway, everything was the same as he’d recalled. Until the moment that he’d returned to the scene, there must have still been some part of him—however small—that hadn’t come to grips with the fact this was true.

This _wasn’t_ a dream, and he hadn’t imagined _any_ of it.

_I did this._

With that though the nauseating feeling that he’d longed for earlier suddenly returned, quickly weaving its way up to his throat and stopping him in his tracks. Back at the office he’d yearned for it, but now—much like _everything_ else it seemed—it was just another inconvenience.

It hardly made him feel human anymore, not after everything else. It made him feel weak.

Shikamaru let out an almighty sigh as he got out of the car, yet another cigarette in his hand—the third of the drive here, not that he was counting or anything. “Shino,” he greeted firmly. “Situation?”

“He’s dead.”

“We knew as much, smart-ass,” sneered Kankuro. “How long?”

Shino shrugged. “I’d say about six hours, maybe seven,” he said, calmly as ever. “We haven’t touched the dice yet, only took pictures—I assume Haruno showed you?”

Shikamaru nodded, but the brunette who was now re-tying his shoelaces on the bonnet of his hatchback frowned. “Dice?” He paused and let untied lace fall, turning his head. His eyes were surprisingly disquieted. “Like in Monopoly?”

“And every other board game on offer—yes, Kankuro,” Shino said, deadpan. He lowered the blue mask from his nose and mouth and forced a very smile. “We assumed you’d want to see them as they were.”

 _I want nothing less._ Shikamaru nodded and returned an equally false smile. “You thought right,” he lied.

He listened for the slow and heavy footsteps of his partner coming up alongside him before finishing off his cigarette and making a point of squishing it with the sole of his shoe. He unassumingly lifted his foot a little, making sure that the cigarette was firmly wedged between the rubber before raising his eyes to meet Shino’s.

Between them, Shino tightly held out two pairs of latex gloves, and Shikamaru’s sick feeling began to subside. As he grabbed the gloves and pulled them on he remembered the accidental magic of last night being so cold; he’d been wearing his own gloves. That was fingerprints ruled out of what might stack up against him.

This did, however, surface the fact that it look a little more likely to be orchestrated without fingerprints or nail marks—if it was an accident why would one wear gloves?

 _Of course you made it look planned,_ he cursed internally, chuckling to himself uncomfortably. _You’ve really fucked up, Nara…_

“What’s funny?”

He turned his head to Kankuro, who for the first time since Shikamaru had met him looked genuinely concerned.

Sheepishly, Shikamaru shook his head. “Nothing.” It wasn’t a lie. Absolutely zero part of this was funny. “Are you alright, man? You seem—”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, letting the gloves on his hands clap against his wrist. He entered the make-shift cover-up that had been constructed where the usual tent wouldn’t fit, and Shikamaru watched Shino follow swiftly.

He took a deep breath and pushed back the canvas, almost cursing as his eyes narrowed in on the spot on the floor he’d been stood mere hours ago.

The cigarette was _gone_.

A small and slightly self-satisfied smile flew across his lips. Relief overpowered any question of _where_ exactly it had gone to.

“Shikamaru?”

His head turned slowly and he rubbed his eyes as he zoned back in on Shino, who stood somewhat proudly over what he was studying before readjusting his mask over his nose and leaning down.

Shikamaru didn’t want to take even a small step closer: he couldn’t, his legs had become jelly as soon as he caught sight of the corpse face down on the ground. His gloved hand hit the brickwork to steady himself with a loud thud. The momentarily spike in confidence subsided as suddenly as it had appeared and within an instant the camera flashes felt like search lights, blinding him with every glare of white light, zoning in on him and him alone.

Thankfully Shino was too invested in explaining every _excruciating_ detail of the wounds Shikamaru was already far too familiar with, but Kankuro had lost focus. He turned and cocked his head, pursing his lips tightly as he looked at the crumbling man before him take deep breath after deep breath. But Shikamaru didn’t even look his way, instead shuffling forward with weak and watery eyes towards the body.

“We haven’t touched them yet but it appears the dice are clean,” Shino said when he noticed where the DI’s eyes had landed. He looked up at Kankuro’s looming eyes. “And I think even _you_ can conclude that they were placed after the attack.”

“Not much blood at all given they got his head,” Shikamaru noted. His voice was so shaky he wanted to slap himself. If he was going to keep this macabre act going he was going to have get a lot better at it.

“None anywhere except the body and the wall.” He pointed to the wall and traced out the slightly chipped and discoloured spatter marks that had seeped into the brickwork. “Given the height of it he must have _already_ been on the ground when—”

“When the killer hit.” He couldn’t bear to hear anyone but himself say it, and he could bear the silence which followed even less. “Thats spiteful.” The words stung as they left his mouth. “ _Intentionally_ spiteful.”

Kankuro hummed, seemingly in agreement, as he backed over toward the line bagged up evidence by the alley’s end. “Maybe,” he agreed, crouching down, “but not necessarily.”

Shikamaru froze and looked to his colleague’s back. “You think?”

There was a gentle rustle as Kankuro shrugged and sifted through the plastic. He slowly lifted a bagged up blade and turned his head. “I can just imagine if you’re getting attacked by a someone _that_ size holding _this_ , and your attacker tripped or something, getting them to hit the wall might be your best bet.”

“But I asked and Haruno said no assault reports have been filed within the last 12 hours,” Shino argued. “Innocent people don’t run.”

“Not true,” said Kankuro, a concerning chuckle rivalling his tone. “Innocent people run all the time—what makes them guilty is when they _keep running_.”

Shikamaru’s mouth felt impossibly dry as he forced a nod of agreement.

Shino stepped towards the evidence lineup and pointed to the far end. “One of the team found an earring just before you two showed up,” he muttered, locking eyes with Shikamaru suggestively.

As Shino held up that tiny dot of metal Shikamaru felt his entire body soften, and taking the remaining steps to join this cluster of minds was almost effortless. It was just a small stud, round and only a few millimetres in diameter, but missing the fastener at its back. He took it in his hands and examined it closely through the plastic. For what it was worth to him, that stud may as well have been pure gold.

“Blunt force trauma from the wall, you say?” he asked mindlessly, trying to distract himself from the evident discomfort he could suddenly see in Kankuro’s eyes now he’d approached him. “Where was the earring found?”

“It was nestled into the hood of his jacket,” Shino replied. “It fits, doesn’t it, with Kankuro’s line of thinking?”

Instantly Shikamaru caught on, and had to hold back a relived sigh as Shino kept talking.

“Woman is getting assaulted by this man who, for whatever reason, is up close. He catches her hair or something else. It snags the earring and tears it out.” Shino looked down across at the sergeant who still stared up at the earring and his superior office intently. “She manages to push him off, and while he’s down…” He paused, looking to Shikamaru for validation. “She did what she _needed_ to do to run away.”

“You say _woman_ ,” Kankuro said firmly, rising until he was looking down at both men. “Why is that?”

Shino frowned. “It’s an earring, and women most wear them so—”

“But men can wear earrings,” he snapped, a little too quickly.

His eyes shifted, narrowing as they fell on Shikamaru who was suddenly aware and terribly self conscious of the little hoops that sat in his ears. Silently he thanked whichever supreme being had intervened to stop him wearing studs much over the last few years—not that they’d granted him much more than a speck of luck in _any_ of this.

He fought the urge to touch them and nodded slowly as it sunk in what was happening—he wasn’t out of the woods yet. “You’re right.”

Kankuro smiled smugly. “Exhibit A: _Nara_ ,” he muttered. “The earring narrows down nothing, don’t you see?”

There was something in the back of those eyes that had changed in the last five minutes, and there was nothing about it that instilled hope in Shikamaru. He shifted uncomfortably as he looked back at the stud. How, for even a moment, he’d thought he was safe on account of _this_ tiny thing was ridiculous.

_What makes them guilty is when they keep running._

His eyes lifted to meet Kankuro’s again, who shot him a concerned glance.

 _I’m sorry_ , he thought, _but I_ need _to keep running_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, okay, so:  
> I hope you're enjoying this so far! Please do let me know what you think - all comments are appreciated as always!
> 
> Also a huge shoutout to @shikamarubase for being the loveliest beta and saving my ass on this chapter - her work is stunning and I implore you all to go check it out her fics!


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